


early hours

by thunder_rolled_a_six



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Weed, lithography, printmaking, this is my love letter to the UCSC print studio so it had to be there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22237063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thunder_rolled_a_six/pseuds/thunder_rolled_a_six
Summary: Literally this is just Grand making a lithograph because I myself miss making lithographs
Kudos: 15





	early hours

Grand gets to the studio late. After 10 it will either be full of people buzzing with the beginnings of exhaustion and a giddy sort of comraderie or will be mostly empty besides the monitor, and either of those options will suit him fine. It turns out to be the later, the monitor nodding to him as he walks past, the only other student working on a plate at a back table, headphones in to drown out the school radio station with its strange music choices. The light in the old, well used room is warm and comforting, and Grand feels himself settling into it like a comfortable coat. 

Grand heads to the middle table and crouches to pull out his stone from underneath it. It's a bigger one, almost too big to lift by himself but he can manage to get it to the sink without help from another student or the hydraulic lift. He grabs the plastic apron hanging near the back door and pours some 100 grit over the stone, spelling out an expletive. A sandpapery "Fuck!" A classmate had told him it made the graining go faster, and who was he to ignore studio superstition? 

He grabs a levigator and starts moving it in circular motions across the surface of the stone, moving around and around and making sure not to stay in any one spot for too long. Whoever'd had the stone before had used a lot of bold dark lines in their work, which were going to be a pain to grain out. He tries to time himself along to the music, washing off the stone and adding more grit when the song changes. He lets himself drift in the repetitive motion, changing hands occasionally as he works to avoid getting sore. 

When the dark lines have finally faded he washes the stone off again and grabs one of the fans, a piece of plastic loosely attached to a short wooden pole, and starts twirling it around to dry the stone. The rhythmic flapping is both an annoying and comforting sound. When the stone is dry, or dry enough, he grabs a small strip of paper and one of the heavy metal tear bars, setting down the second on top of the first on his stone. The paper stays pretty firmly trapped under the straight metal placed shortways, but when he tests it longways it slides loose easily. Grand sighs, puts the bar and paper back into their places, and pours more grit onto the stone. If the surface is uneven it could crack under the pressure of the press, and he doesn't have the multiple thousands of dollars it would take to replace the stone. He focuses on the edges, working them till he thinks they're probably even. He should test it, probably, but it's 11:15 now and he decides to just move to the 110 grit. He does two rounds of it before moving to the 120 to finish it off. He dries off the stone again, tests it for evenness and with only a tiny bit of wiggle figures it’s ok, and lugs it out the back door to the tables outside. He goes back inside to grab one of the flat bastard files and his jacket to keep warm in the cool night air, and begins beveling the edges of his stone, working to create the perfect curve. He also takes out the Altoids tin in his pocket and retrieves a joint he'd rolled earlier, lighting it after a brief glance around. No ones out at this time of night, and if anyone was in this particular spot it was probably also to smoke. By the time he's finished with the edges he's pleasantly fuzzy. He brings the stone back inside, careful not to crush his fingers as he sets it down on a table. 

He gets out his litho crayons and sets to work, trying to capture the thrill of creation and the haze of exhaustion together in shapes and lines. He uses an exacto knife to scratch away marks, uses the classrooms softer litho crayons to do some smudgy shading. By the time he's finished it's after midnight and the other student has left. The monitor tells him they're going to pack up soon, but since Grand also works as a monitor, albeit on different days, he can stay and lock up later. Grand nods, waving a farewell. 

He goes to gather sponges and measuring cups and tarlatan and the talc and rosin. He dust the stone, first with rosin, then the talc, then pours gum arabic into three of the cups. He pours 5 drops of nitric acid each into the second two. He pours the pure gum onto the stone first, making sure to saturate the surface. Next he pours the acidic ones on, agitating the surface with cheap brushes. He hadn't set a timer, he realizes, so just keeps an eye on the clock to get the 5 minutes of etching he needs. At the end of it he wipes down the gum with the sponge quickly, and buffs what's left in with the tarlatan. He brings everything he used to the sink, washing everything out with warm water. He takes the tarlatan out back and flicks it into the air, snapping the moisture out, before hanging it on the drying line with its ghostly fellows. 

Grand glances at the clock. One am. Technically he's now supposed to wait 24 hours for the image to really settle into the stone, but this project isn’t for a class or anything so he decides to see exactly how much he can break that rule. He’ll give it half an hour, he figure. No one else is in the studio to bug him for it. 

While he waits he goes to his locker and fishes out one of a couple cup of noodles he keeps in there, filling it up with water and heating it in the ancient studio microwave. He dumps in some of the hot sauce someone left for community use and eats it by drinking out of the cup, too lazy to find or clean a fork. 

It’s 1:40 by the time he goes back to the stone, having half nodded off sitting on a counter in the curating room. He drags his stone to a vent station, turning the system on. He gets out more gum and buffs it into the stone before fanning it dry. Then he pulls on his thick rubber gloves and pours lithotine onto the stone, the chemical removing the crayon drawing from the surface with a little gentle wiping. Next asphaltum goes on the stone, which he buffs in with a fresh tarlatan and fans dry. He washes out the asphaltum with water and a sponge, until the stone is clean except for the lines of his drawing, the asphaltum having replaced the litho crayon. Finally he gets out a little bit of ink and one of the big leather rollers, rolling out a neat square and then rolling ink onto the stone. Between rolls he wipes the stone with the wet sponge, as ink will stick in any dry spots. When the brownish asphaltum has all been replaced with the black of the ink he fans the thing dry again and buffs in gum one more time. 

Time for the second etch. He goes for 7 drops of acid this time, and agitates for 7 minutes, though the rest of the process remains the same. Again, he’s supposed to wait a full hour before rolling up and printing but he figures he’ll give it 15 minutes. He goes to set up the print station in the meantime, grabbing paper and rags from his drawer in the curating room, rolling out the ink color he wants, getting newsprint. 

He returns to the stone and does the roll up process again. Buff in, fan dry, wash out, buff in, fan dry, wash out, roll up. BFWBFWR. An acronym the students say phonetically. He takes his stone over to the press, the longest distance he has to travel with it, and it’s a relief to set it down. He puts some of the cut short two by fours on the back of the press to get the stone more in the middle of the bed and selects the right size scraper bar and tympan. He adjusts the pressure on the press, firm enough to get a good print but not so much that the stone is in danger of cracking. He wets the stone and rolls his ink color onto it, the sets down two sheets of news print and the tympan on top of them, putting some grease down so the scraper will glide smoothly. He pulls the scraper bar down to meet the stone, unlocks the wheel and turns it so the stone goes through the press. He locks the wheel again (having learned the hard way that if he pulls the bed back without doing so it will result in a bruised thigh) and pulls the first test print. It’s a little faint, but the first always is and he’ll try a few more before upping the pressure.

The next few tests come out darker, and he’s satisfied enough to switch to the better paper. The difference in paper weight should be enough in added pressure to get a good, dark print. He wipes the stone with water, rolls up, and sets down the paper over the art. He hasn’t bothered with registration marks, intending to tear the paper down to make it a full bleed print when he’s done. He sets news print down, tympan on top, and rolls the stone through. The pressure is indeed stronger now, the old press giving a slightly worrying “thunk” as the scraper clears the paper, but the stone looks fine and the print looks great so Grand keeps the pressure as it is. He sets the stone and rolls up again and again, pulling 12 prints. The only difference he notices with not having waited the full 24 hours is the stone gets scummy faster, unwanted chatter building up in areas that are supposed to be clean. Extra wiping while rolling ink out gets rid of that problem, though, and with only a dozen prints it doesn’t end up being too much of an issue. 

He moves his prints to the drying racks and then buffs in gum to his now dry stone, sealing the surface in case he wants to print more later. He moves it back to its spot under its table, then heads back to the print station to clean up. He starts with the ink, cleaning it away with oil and simple green. It’s far enough along in the semester that even these gentle cleaning agents bother his dry hands, and he puts on lotion from the bottle of o’keefe’s someone had left behind. He then moves the wood blocks back to their shelves and wipes down the press bed, tympan, and scraper bar, and dumps his bowl of water in the sink and cleans off the sponge. He gives the counters a good wiping down and throws away any trash or rags. He covers up the roll up ink with cling wrap, and leaves a note of when it was rolled out. It could still be used for a day or two, may as well leave it for the next person.

He scrubs a hand over his face. 3:38 am. He’s got class at 9 and wants to be in before that to tear down the prints. He grabs his jacket, grabs his keys, turns off the radio which is still playing its strange music. Switches off the lights in the studio and curating room, locks the door. There’s not a soul around though the streetlights shine hazy above him and the star further beyond that as he walks down the hill to his car. He starts the engine and makes his way home. 


End file.
